Page 98 of Devil’s Disciples

Wearing nothing more than a towel, I stumbled to the bed. I needed to take time to digest everything. To find a way to make it all seem sensible. Making sense of such a morbid act wasn’t going to be an easy act.

When I woke the first time, it was dark. Baker was at my side. I got up, waking him when I did. Silently, I apologized.

I walked to the living room, turned on the light, and scanned the room. There was no blood. The rug had been replaced. It smelled not like gunpowder, but like a hospital.

I flipped out the light and turned toward the room. Baker stood in the doorway. As I walked past him, he draped his arm over my shoulder.

I nestled against him on his side of the king-sized bed that night. In his arms, I slept until morning came. As the sun’s light filled the room, we both woke at the same instant, naturally.

He rolled to the side and looked me in the eyes. “I love you, Andy.”

His eyes told me they weren’t simply words. He meant what he said. My eyes welled with tears, and eventually a few of them escaped. Not because of what had happened. Or because of what he’d said. The tears were those of gratitude. I knew the only way I could get back to normal was to make the trip with him. With love in his heart, he could guide me through anything life had to offer me.

I kissed him, knowing that in time, everything would be fine. “I love you, too.”

41

Baker

My life hadn’t been plagued with death, but I was no newcomer to how it smelled. We found out the cop wasn’t a cop, he was a private detective. He’d either been hired to look into my life, or was simply someone who believed there was something valuable to find in my condo.

He’d been disposed of, as had his car, phone, and all his personal effects. I was confident that they’d never find enough of him to perform a DNA test. Remnants of his car were in Arkansas, crushed into a ball of steel no bigger than a kitchen stove.

His cell phone was in the front yard of his El Cajon home, right beside the driveway. They’d find it wiped clean, and with a dead battery. Our resident Brainiac, Tito, had performed a deep search of the device, finding no indication that he’d talked to anyone about me, the club, or his investigation.

I was confident the mess had been cleaned up, but my life would forever be stained from the events of that day.

The sound of the bell echoed beneath the mall’s concrete canopy.

Ding, ding, ding. Ding, ding, ding. Ding, ding ding.

Wearing a surf shop hoodie, I walked toward the red Salvation Army donation bucket. When I passed, I stepped in front of the bell toting woman, blocking her view of my intended offering.

I pulled my hand from inside the hoodie’s pocket, and dropped four five-ounce gold coins into the red canister. As they hit the bottom with a clank, she looked up.

“God bless you,” she said with a smile. “And, Merry Christmas.”

I gave a nod and ducked through the door. After making the same donation at each of the mall’s entrances, I drove to another location, five miles away.

Each holiday deposit would provide the recipient with roughly thirty thousand dollars. It wasn’t much, but by the end of the night, I would rid myself of close to a million dollars in gold.

It was never from the club’s take. The donations always came from my personal funds. The club’s take was to shield the men from prosecution, pay attorneys fees, and give them something to retire on when that day arrived.

It was a holiday ritual of mine. One that I’d done soon following my arrival to Southern California. Each holiday season I spent an entire day casting the coins with a mold and stamp I’d purchased in Monterrey, at an antique shop.

My charity didn’t right my wrongs, nor did I expect it to. But it was the main reason I did what I did. Over time, things somehow got out of whack, and our means and methods changed. I’d get back on track, somehow. It was going to take time and considerable planning, but it could be done.

Until that day came, I’d live with the knowledge that the swath of my scythe was wide.

42

Andy

My Gala Christmas Bash was a flop. I learned a good portion of the tenants left to see family for the holidays, and many others simply weren’t as festive as I was. In summary, Stephen and Michael came by, Mort and Mister Greene paid a visit, and Viktor from 1C brought a bottle of vodka and stared at my tits for half an hour.

It was scheduled to end at midnight, but I had my doubts I’d be able to make it until then without throwing in the towel. About the time I was going to call it a night, the door opened. Holly walked in with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other.

“Becky finally called me back. She’s staying with the kids until whenever.” She raised the wine. “Do you have an opener?”